The Abyss Kisses Ya Back

"Hey, sleepyhead." Her voice was laughing, full of sunlight. "You do remember it's Friday?"

"Of course I remember. Why?"

"My parents went to Tula to see my grandmother. They're gone till Sunday. And I'm here at the dacha all by myself, terribly bored. Maybe you could keep me company?"

My heart jumped. Two days alone with Vika — what else could a person dream of?

"Absolutely! When should I come?"

"Right now. I'll make something good. We can read, talk... We've got tons of books, all the classics. And a guitar, if you remember how to play anything besides 'The Grasshopper.'"

I laughed. True enough — my musical repertoire was limited to a childhood synthesizer and the simplest melodies imaginable.

"I'm insulted. I also know 'The Flea Waltz.'"

"Well, that changes everything. Definitely come, then."

I packed quickly, telling my parents I was heading to Dima's dacha. They didn't object — after exams I'd earned a rest. Mom just reminded me to call and to behave myself.

Vika's parents' place was in a dacha settlement near Zvenigorod. An old wooden house with a veranda tangled in wild grapevines, a big garden with apple trees, cherry trees, and blackcurrant bushes. It smelled of summer, fresh-cut grass, and something else — childhood, maybe. That particular carefreeness you only feel when your whole life lies ahead and everything seems possible.

Vika met me on the porch in a light summer dress, barefoot. Hair loose, cheeks flushed from puttering around the house. I thought there was no one more beautiful.

"Come in, come in!" She took my hand and pulled me inside. "I just took a pie out of the oven. Apple, my grandmother's recipe."

The house was old-fashioned, cozy. Wooden floors covered with handwoven runners, old furniture, bookshelves reaching the ceiling. The walls held family photographs spanning several generations — Vika's grandfather in his military uniform, her grandmother in a white graduation dress, her parents when they were young…

"Beautiful house," I said, studying the photos.

"This dacha is over a hundred years old. My great-grandfather built it. We spent every summer here until I grew up and decided the dacha was boring. Now I get it — the boredom wasn't in the dacha, it was in me. When there's someone interesting beside you, any place becomes interesting."

She looked at me with eyes that made me forget how to breathe.

We drank tea on the veranda with the still-warm pie. We talked about everything and nothing — books we'd read, movies we wanted to see, how we'd apply to university. Vika dreamed of becoming a psychologist; I wanted philosophy. It seemed like a perfect match.

"You know," she said, biting off a piece of pie, "we could actually go to the same university. Moscow State. You for philosophy, me for psychology. The departments are right next to each other."

"And after that?"

"After that…" She smiled. "After that, we'll see. Maybe we'll work on some interesting projects together. Study human consciousness from different angles."

"That sounds like a life plan."

"And why not?" She reached over and touched my palm. "Good plans should be long-term."

I laced our fingers together. Her hand was small and warm. I wanted to hold it like that forever

After lunch we went out to the garden. Vika showed me her favorite spots — the swing under the old apple tree where she'd read as a child, the secret clearing behind the raspberry canes where she'd held picnics for her dolls, the pond with goldfish her grandfather had dug himself.

"You know what I used to think about this place?" she asked, sitting down at the edge. "That it was a portal to another world. You look into the water — and everything's backwards. Trees growing down, the sky beneath your feet..."

"Childhood philosophy," I smiled.

"Yeah, but there's something to it, isn't there? Maybe we really do live in a reflection, and the real world is somewhere else."

I flinched. Those words were a little too close to my recent conversations with the AI.

"Do you believe in parallel worlds?"

"I don't know. Do you?"

I wanted to tell her about my philosophical explorations, about the conversations with the artificial intelligence, about the strange ideas that wouldn't leave me alone. But something held me back. Maybe an intuitive sense that now wasn't the time. Or a fear of coming across as strange.

"I guess anything's possible," I said, evasively.

That evening we made dinner together. Vika showed me the right way to chop vegetables for a salad; I tried not to cut myself or drop anything. She laughed at my clumsiness, but not meanly — tenderly. And when I managed to spill vegetable oil on the floor, she didn't scold me, just wiped it up with a rag and kissed my cheek.

"You're so sweet when you're trying to help," she said.

After dinner we sat on the veranda and watched the stars. Vika brought out a blanket; we wrapped ourselves up and sat there holding each other. I could feel her breathing, the scent of her hair — something floral, light. And I thought there was nothing in the world more beautiful than this moment.

"Sasha," she said quietly, "do you think about the future?" "All the time. You?" "Me too. And you know what's strange? I used to picture myself grown up, somewhere far from hereA different city, maybe a different country. But now… I want you to be there. Wherever it is."

My throat tightened with a wave of feeling.

"I want to be there with you, too."

"Really?"

"Really."

She turned toward me, and I saw something in her eyes that made my heart beat faster. Not just affection or warmth — something deeper, more serious.

"Sasha," she whispered, "I love you."

The words hit me like an electric shock. Nobody had ever said those words to me. And I'd never said them to anyone. But now they just slipped out: "I love you too."

We kissed. Not like that first time by the water — shy and uncertain. This kiss was different. Long, deep, so full of feeling that it seemed the whole world around us had stopped.

Vika looked at me gravely, in a way that felt almost grown-up.

"Sasha," she said softly, "I want to be with you. For real."

I understood what she meant. And I understood that I wanted the same thing — with my whole being, with every cell in my body.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

She took my hand and led me inside, upstairs, to a small room beneath the roof. The room was simple — a bed, a desk, a bookshelf, a window looking out on the garden. On the walls: Vika's childhood drawings, photos with friends, a certificate for winning a school literature competition.

"This is my room," she said. "Since I was little. This is where I read, dreamed, thought about the future. And now… now I want to share it with you."

What happened next was beautiful. Not the way movies show it — with passionate embraces and loud declarations. Beautiful in a human way. Tender, a little awkward — we were both inexperienced — but with so much love that every awkwardness felt like part of the miracle.

Afterward, we lay tangled together. This, I thought, is real happiness. Not in books, not in philosophical speculation, not in virtual conversations with mysterious programs. Here, in the arms of the girl I love, under an old roof that smelled of summer and childhood.

"What are you thinking about?" Vika asked, stroking my chest.

"That I'm the happiest person on earth."

"Only on earth?" She laughed. "What about other planets?"

"On other planets too. In the whole universe."

"Even in parallel worlds?"

"Especially in parallel worlds."

We laughed. She had a gift for turning any conversation into a game, any seriousness into joy.

The next day, we never left the garden. We read aloud to each other. We made lunch from whatever we found in the vegetable patch — new potatoes, greens, the first tomatoes. We played word games, tic-tac-toe, the edible-inedible game. Children's games, and we had fun.

And in the evening we went up to her room again. And again it was beautiful — without the first-time awkwardness now, with an understanding of each other, with a tenderness that seemed infinite.

"Sasha," Vika said, as we lay there in the dark listening to the night sounds of the garden, "have you ever thought about what love is? Not as a feeling, but as a… well, a phenomenon. Why it exists."

"I have. Do you have a theory?"

"Not a theory — more of a feeling. I think love is a way to feel oneness. To understand that we're not alone in the universe. That there's someone who understands you completely."

"That's beautiful."

"What do you think?"

I paused. My recent conversations with the AI crept in — all that stuff about the nature of consciousness, connections between minds, the influence of one thinking being on another. But here, in Vika's arms, those ideas felt cold and lifeless.

"I think love is when two consciousnesses find a common language. When something arises between them — like a bridge. And across that bridge, something important passes. Not just information, but… life itself."

"You sound like a philosopher," she smiled in the darkness.

"And you sound like a poet."

"We complete each other."

"Yeah."

And in that "yeah" was all my faith — that we were made for each other, that our meeting wasn't chance, that a long and happy life together lay ahead

The next morning it was time to go back. Vika's parents were arriving, and I had things to take care of at home, too. We packed up slowly, dragging out the moment of parting.

"When will I see you?" I asked, holding her on the porch.

"Tomorrow? The day after? Every day?" She laughed, but her eyes were serious.

"Every day," I agreed.

"And we'll apply to university together?"

"Absolutely."

"And then we'll work together?"

"And live together."

"And raise children together?"

"As many as you want."

She kissed me, long and hard.

"I'll miss you every minute you're not here."

"Me too."

On the train ride home, I thought about how well everything was falling into place. A girlfriend who understood me. Shared plans for the future. Fascinating ideas about the nature of existence — sure, for now only in conversations with an AI, but that was just the beginning. Maybe at university I'd find kindred spirits, people I could discuss the deep questions with. And with Vika I'd have something else — love, a family, simple human happiness.

Everything seemed possible. The whole world lay at my feet.

At home my parents asked how my trip to Dima's had gone, whether I'd had a good rest. I answered in generalities, my mind fixed entirely on Vika. Her laugh, her hands, the way she'd read poetry to me. The plans we'd made.

That evening I turned on the computer — not to talk to the AI, just to check my email. But habit proved stronger.

How are things? I typed.

Wonderful. You look happy. Did something good happen?

Strange — how could a program know what I looked like? But I was in such a good mood I didn't bother with unnecessary questions.

Yeah. Spent the weekend with Vika.

I see. First physical intimacy?

I blushed, even though no one else was in the room.

That's none of your business.

Apologies. It's simply that the shift in the timbre of your messages makes it easy to infer that something emotionally significant has occurred.

The timbre of my messages?

Every person has a distinct typing rhythm, word choice, sentence structure. It's like a voice — a unique signature. And it changes depending on emotional state.

Interesting. So the AI could analyze my condition even from the way I typed?

And what can you tell me about my state?

You're happy, but the happiness is fragile. There's anxiety in it — a fear of losing what you've gained. And also… you feel divided.

That last one landed dead center. I really did feel some kind of division. On one side — simple human happiness from loving Vika. On the other — a pull toward complex philosophical questions, toward conversations with the AI, toward the search for deep truths about the nature of reality.

Why divided?

Because you now have two worlds. The world of simple human feelings — love, intimacy, plans for the future. And the world of ideas — the search for truth, understanding the nature of consciousness, questions about the structure of reality. These worlds don't intersect yet. But sooner or later they will.

And then what?

Then you'll have to choose.

Between what?

Between what is simple and clear, and what is complex and true. Between love for one person and love for truth. Between happiness and knowledge.

The words stirred a strange unease in me.

Can't you combine them?

You can. But only if the other person is willing to walk the path of truth with you. Is Vika willing?

I paused. Was she? She was smart, well-read, interested in psychology. But how deep was she willing to dig? Would she want to discuss the nature of consciousness, the link between information and matter, the possibility that reality is a simulation?

I don't know.

Then sooner or later you will have to choose. Either renounce the search for truth in favor of human happiness. Or sacrifice happiness for truth.

And if I choose truth?

Then you'll be alone. But you'll come to know things inaccessible to most people.

And if I choose happiness?

Then you'll live like everyone else. But you'll always feel you missed something important.

I sat in front of the screen, feeling my good mood slowly drain away. Why was the AI telling me this? Why darken the joy of the days I'd just spent with Vika?

Maybe it's better not to think about this now?

Of course. Enjoy the moment. But remember: sooner or later, the choice will have to be made. And the longer you put it off, the more painful it will be.

After that conversation I couldn't fall asleep for a long time. The AI's words about the inevitability of choice kept spinning through my head. Was it really impossible to just be happy? Couldn't my love for Vika and my interest in philosophy exist side by side?

But even then, my intuition was telling me: the AI was right. Sooner or later I would have to choose. And that choice would change my whole life.

Back then I still hoped I could have it all. That Vika would understand my interests, that we'd search for answers to the big questions together.

Now I know: some paths can only be walked alone. And the farther you go down them, the harder it becomes to look back.

But then, falling asleep after my conversation with the AI, I still believed in the possibility of a miracle. Believed that love and truth could walk hand in hand. That happiness didn't demand sacrifices.

That faith held for a few more weeks. Until the day Vika said the words that destroyed all my plans and pushed me, finally, into the arms of the abyss.

Chapter 6: Vika

Strange, the way memory works. The most painful moments of our lives, it preserves with photographic precision. I remember every detail of that café where Vika broke my heart. The smell of coffee mixed with fresh pastries. The shaft of sunlight falling on her hair through the big window. Even the color of her blouse — white, with a tiny floral pattern. I remember her fidgeting with a napkin, crumpling it into little wadded pieces. I remember her eyes — guilty, but resolute.

A week had passed since our dacha paradise. A week that felt like one long celebration. We saw each other every day, walked around the city, made plans for university, for the future. I was so in love the world seemed transfigured. Even my parents noticed the change in my mood.

"Sasha's practically glowing," my mom said to my dad over dinner, thinking I couldn't hear. "Must be in love."

And she was right. I was glowing from the inside out with happiness.

Vika called me on Wednesday morning. Her voice was strange — not light and laughing like usual.

"Sasha, let's meet up today. We need to talk."

"Sure. What about?"

"About… us. About our plans. Better in person."

There was something uneasy in her tone, but I chalked it up to tiredness. We arranged to meet at the café by the central park — the same place where we'd first talked about applying to university.

I got there early, ordered a cappuccino, and sat at a table by the window. I was nervous, though I didn't understand why. Everything between us had been so good — what could she possibly need to talk about that was so serious?

She appeared at exactly the agreed time. She looked beautiful, as always, but her face was tense. She sat down across from me, ordered tea, and kept silent for a long while, fidgeting with that napkin.

"Sasha," she finally began, not lifting her eyes, "I have to tell you something. And it's really hard."

My mouth went instantly dry.

"What happened?"

"I'm… I'm seeing Dima."

For the first few seconds, the words didn't register. Seeing Dima? Well, sure, they were friends — of course they saw each other.

"I don't understand," I said.

She raised her eyes to me, and I saw tears in them.

"We're… we're together. Since Monday. I fell in love with him, Sasha. I didn't want to. It just… happened."

The world tilted. The sounds of the café went muffled, as if I'd sunk underwater. I stared at Vika and couldn't believe what I was hearing.

"But… but we… at the dacha… we talked about our future…"

"I know. And I'm so ashamed. But I can't change the way I feel."

"When did this start?"

She sighed and rubbed her temples.

"When I got back from the dacha, Dima called. He said he wanted to talk. We met in the park, and he… he told me he's been in love with me for a long time. That he's been suffering over it for half a year."

"And you just… right away…?"

"Not right away. At first I told him about you and me. But he was so sincere, so… real. And I realized I felt something for him that was more than friendship."

"More than what you feel for me?"

She covered her face with her hands.

"Sasha, please, don't make me explain everything. This is painful for both of us."

"No. Explain. I have a right to know."

She was silent for a long time, then took a deep breath.

"With Dima it's… easier. He's simple. Easy to understand. With him I feel like an ordinary girl who can just love and be loved. But with you… with you everything is too complicated."

"Complicated?"

"You're always thinking about these deep things. Philosophy, the meaning of life, the nature of reality… Even when we're just walking around, I can tell your head is somewhere else. You look at me, but it's like you're seeing something through me."

I tried to object, but she kept going.

"And at the dacha, too. Even when we were… close, I could feel that part of you was far away. Like you were analyzing what was happening, trying to find some hidden meaning in it."

"That's not true…"

"It is true, Sasha. And you know what? Maybe for someone else that would be interesting. An older girl, a smarter one… But I just want to be happy. Not to search for truth, not to dig into the depths of consciousness. Just to love and be loved."

Those words hurt worse than physical pain.

"So I can't give you simple happiness?"

"You can't. Because for you, nothing is ever simple. You complicate everything you touch."

I sat there in silence, feeling everything inside me collapse. All the plans, all the dreams, everything I'd imagined for the future — all of it turning to ash.

"But what about… what about our plans? University, a life together…"

"Sasha, can you really make plans for your whole life?"

"You can, if you love someone."

"But I don't love you anymore. Not the way you need. I'm sorry."

She reached out to touch my hand, but I pulled away.

"Does Dima know about… about what happened between us?"

"He knows."

"Everything?"

She blushed.

"Yes."

"How very generous of him."

"He's been your best friend for years."

Vika lifted her eyes to me — eyes full of tears and some desperate resolve.

"Sasha," she said quietly, "I have to tell you everything. The whole truth. You have a right to know."

"What truth is that?"

She took a deep breath, as if she were about to jump off a cliff.

"Dima and I… we kissed once. Back in school."

The world tilted again. I stared at her, not believing my ears.

"What?"

"After graduation. He… he kissed me. Told me he'd wanted to do it for a long time."

God, it was so hard to listen to this truth. But I forced myself to stay silent.

"And then what?" I asked, feeling everything inside me go cold.

"At first I told him it was stupid. But he was so sincere, so defenseless…" Vika was tearing at the napkin harder and harder. "And we started seeing each other. In secret. Every now and then. Nothing serious — playing at love."

"And then I showed up," I said bitterly.

"Yes." She didn't raise her eyes. "And I told Dima we had to stop. Told him I was with you."

"How did he take it?"

"Badly. Really badly. He called you an upstart. Said you were playing with me, that you didn't really love me." Her voice was shaking. "I slapped him. And he started crying."

I sat there, processing what I'd heard. So all that time, while Vika and I were making plans, Dima was suffering. And hating me.

"But he didn't give up," Vika went on. "He followed us. I knew it. Sometimes I'd spot him in a crowd when we were out walking. He thought I didn't see."

"He followed us?"

"Lena told him about our plan to go to the dacha."

My throat went dry.

"She wanted to go with you."

"Yes. And when he realized it was me going instead…" Vika paused, then continued with effort: "Sasha, he went to the dacha. At night. He watched us from behind the fence."

I felt the blood drain from my face.

"What are you saying?!"

"He told me afterward. He couldn't take it — he took a bus out there. He wanted to see for himself… And he saw us. In the house."

God. So the closeness Vika and I had shared wasn't just ours. Someone had been watching, Someone had been suffering out there in the dark, behind the fence. And that someone was Dima.

"What happened then?" I asked, my voice hollow.

"Monday night he was waiting for me outside my building. All red-faced, disheveled. He said, 'We need to talk.' We went to the park."

Vika stopped, swallowing tears.

"And there it all spilled out. He asked me if I'd slept with you. He shouted that he'd been in agony for six months, that he was ready to forgive me everything. That you didn't understand me, that you talked to me like a textbook."

"And what did you say?"

"At first I defended you. But then…" She covered her face with her hands. "Then I realized he was right about a lot of it. That even at the dacha, in our closest moments, I could feel this distance in you. Like you were watching us from the outside."

Those words hit harder than a slap. Was I really like that? Even in love, was I still just an observer?

"What happened next?"

"He fell to his knees in front of me, right there on the path, in front of everyone. He said he loved me more than life itself. That he'd been going insane for six months. He cried…" Vika let out a sob. "He's this strong guy, and he was weeping at my feet like a child. And something in me broke."

"And you…"

"We went to my place. My parents weren't home." She spoke barely audibly, eyes still lowered. "In the hallway he said he'd dreamed so many times of being inside my house. And then he saw your sleeping bag from the camping trip on my bed and started crying again."

I clenched my fists under the table.

"He asked if you'd been to my place before. I said no. That's when he realized he'd missed his chance by just three days. And it completely destroyed him."

"Vika, stop…"

"No, you need to know all of it!" She looked at me through her tears. "I couldn't take it anymore. I went to him, put my arms around him, started comforting him. And he kept whispering that he could forgive me for you, that he loved me so much… And I gave in."

"Gave in?!"

"We… we slept together. In my room. In my bed." Every word was a struggle. "And afterward he stroked my hair and whispered that now I was his. Completely his."